


Khabaspa

by AllegoriesInMediasRes



Series: Mahabharata fics [10]
Category: Mahabharata - Vyasa
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blind Character, F/M, First Meeting, Fix-It, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 16:37:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16044350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllegoriesInMediasRes/pseuds/AllegoriesInMediasRes
Summary: Princes are not left alone with their brides before they are wed, not even blind ones, and half a dozen maidservants and manservants line the walls as Dhritarashtra strides into his presence chamber with honed ease. Down the hallway outside the other entrance, he hears unsteady footsteps, like a child who has just donned a blindfold in the name of some game and must rely on others’ assistance to move. Except this sightless one is no foolish girl, but Dhritarashtra’s equally foolish future bride. AU.khabaspa (Sanskrit): dew, frost, tears of the sky





	Khabaspa

Princes are not left alone with their brides before they are wed, not even blind ones, and half a dozen maidservants and manservants line the walls as Dhritarashtra strides into his presence chamber with honed ease. Down the hallway outside the other entrance, he hears unsteady footsteps, like a child who has just donned a blindfold in the name of some game and must rely on others’ assistance to move. Except this sightless one is no foolish girl, but Dhritarashtra’s equally foolish future bride.

Princess Gandhari of Gandhara is announced, and he hears the clinkle of her bowing. “Your Highness, and my future lord.” Her voice is slightly girlish, but he hears the undercurrent of strength that years of prayer to Lord Shiva must have lent it. A pity that for all her devotion, the Destroyer apparently did not grant her wisdom. “It is an honor -- and a surprise -- to be summoned by you before either of us may grace the other’s forehead with _sindoor_.”

“Neither of us will ever apply _sindoor_ to the other’s brow if you do not remove your blindfold and desist with this vow you have made,” Dhritarashtra says. Preamble has never suited him, and if it is uncouth to speak so brusquely to any lady, let alone one’s potential future bride, well, Dhritarashtra does not care.

Silence, and then a soft, dry chuckle from Gandhari. “I had expected you would be taken aback. But I swear to you that I shall never enjoy anything that you cannot, and that I shall turn my eyes from the world so that I might know your pain.”

“You cannot know it.” A series of shifts in the room, as though its occupants are stiffening at the bluntness. “Even if you never take it off, you still have the choice to remove it. Something I have never had and never will, which is why I do not appreciate this mockery you are making of yourself in my name.”

He shuts his eyes, as the oldest wound he possesses is ripped open anew. _How to make her see, how to make_ _her understand?_ “If you had been born blind as I was, or else lost it to disease or another tragedy later in life, then perhaps we could have been partners in our darkness. But you are blessed with sight, and I will have a wife who uses her eyes, not one who covers them forever.”

Another stiff silence, and then an exhalation from Gandhari, as though she is raising her chin. Uncle Bhishma has taught him enough in politics that he can sense others’ body language from his ears alone, as ably as any sighted courtier. “All my life, I have hoped for nothing else than to be a true wife to my husband. I prayed and fasted to Lord Shiva that I might prove to be worthy. Nobody may take that right away from me, not even the husband I serve.”

“Then I pray that your husband will be delighted by your devotion, for I will not be that man.” His voice is sharp without him realizing it, but his temper is rising. “Is this your way of rebelling at being tied to a cripple? A self-punitive protest, wrapped up in wifely submission? I will not have it, not in _my_ future queen.”

It reeks of the same cloying pity that Pandu has always given him, the “ _How terrible it must be for you to be blind, Elder Brother? How can you bear it? I think I could not, were it I!”_ , the constant “ _Let me do that for you, don’t strain yourself_ ,” when Dhritarashtra is perfectly capable of cutting his own food or fletching his own arrows. Sadly, a man cannot choose his brothers, but he does have some say in the woman who will stand by his side for the rest of his life.

“Your Highness,” Sanjay begins, likely with intents to mediate, but Dhritarashtra raises a hand to silence him. Gandhari is still silent, and frustration wells within him. She is young -- sixteen to Dhritarashtra’s twenty-three -- but is she young enough to cling to her rash promise with the stubbornness of a sullen child?

“Will you repudiate me, when the betrothals have all but been finalized, and half my dowry has already reached Hastinapur?” Gandhari is quiet but firm. “Your own uncle bears his name thanks to the dreadful oath he adheres to. Grant me the same respect you grant him, and respect my vow.”

“And this is my vow, that my wife shall be a sensible woman who uses the eyes she has been blessed with. You forget that I am not the only Kuru to jilt an otherwise blameless woman, regardless of the dishonor that fell upon her.”

His long-gone Aunt Amba, whose plight he has heard of only in whispers, whose dishonor in a way is responsible for his own blindness. The challenge he has issued hangs in the air, and Dhritarashtra knows the magnitude of what he is threatening. He has heard of the ruthlessness with which Uncle treated Gandhara, of the fate that befell her father, and while he is not so sentimental as to concern himself with the well-merited suffering of a recalcitrant vassal kingdom, he is aware that Gandhari does not have many options. To be rejected by a Kuru Prince, even the blind one, would be a terrible stain upon a princess’s reputation, and combined with her lack of any true home, her future is bleak.

But that is her decision to make, and her consequences to consider. Dhritarashtra can find himself another bride; there are enough princesses who would look past his infirmity to marry someone who belongs to the great Kuru House. Sughada showed him that it is possible for someone to love him, and if no royal or noble woman wants him, he is not so unrealistic as to balk at marrying a commoner. Sughada herself would not be a wife to sneeze at, and Yuyutsu’s continued healthy existence might mean that even proud Uncle looks past her dancing girl origins.

The quiet stretches on and on, and he cannot be sure what she will choose. Then rustling, and the sound of cloth dropping onto the carpet floor. “I have removed my veil.”

He crooks an eyebrow, to which Sanjay, attuned to his every moment, confirms, “Princess Gandhari has taken off her blindfold.”

“I have obeyed your command, my lord,” Gandhari repeats, and her voice is dull, and for the first time, Dhritarashtra feels a pang of regret. He has pushed her against the wall, after all, and he cannot be sure that her choice was as motivated by practicality as it was by true desire. His own existence is the result of more than one unwanted union, but he had hoped that his marriage would be something more. She has met his terms, however, and honor compels him to do right by her.

Impulse seizes him, and he moves to stand directly in front of her, to the soft gasps of her maidservants at the impropriety. He takes her hands in his and asks, “Do you see me, Your Highness?”

A pause. “I do,” she affirms, hesitation in her voice at not knowing what game he intends to play.

“Then look upon my face, and tell me whether I am handsome.” She exhales in confusion and starts at such forwardness, but Dhritarashtra is not hunting for compliments. He asks the question with true detachment.

“You will never have the chance to judge my beauty, so I see no reason why I should do so to you.” She still clings to her irrational notion of fairness, and while Dhritarashtra recognizes the strength of it, he intends to gently disabuse her of it, and he is taking the first step in doing so.

“You have agreed --” perhaps not entirely willingly, but the decision has been made “-- to be my queen, and my queen must be able to tell me what she sees in the world, and how the world sees me, if I am to be any use as a king. Word had reached me of the Princess of Gandhara’s wisdom and devotion long before I ever thought of marrying her, and I trust you have brought that judgment -- and honesty -- with you to Hastinapur.”

He feels her hands move -- not to pull away from him, but as though she is considering her next words carefully. “Your Highness is tall and fair of face, with a countenance that speaks of nobility and a figure that speaks of talent in the military arts, nurtured by the great warriors Kripacharya and Bhishma. Although your hands are uncommonly smooth, and the tilt of your chin more obstinate than I would have expected in a gracious prince.”

Dhritarashtra laughs: one of the few times he has ever done so truly, not a dry chuckle but a hearty, full-bellied laugh. The things this strange princess brings out in him! What else might she elicit from him, and what might he be able to draw out from her, he wonders, with a laddish thrill he has never had the chance to feel.

“Prince Sakuni of Gandhara approaches,” the herald announces suddenly, and Dhritarashtra instinctively makes to move away from her, when he has not even wedded her, but Gandhari grabs his hands firmly, so that he cannot step back, not even as her brother enters the room.

“First you blindfold yourself, Mahika, and now you disappear without--” Sakuni stops short as he undoubtedly sees the semi-scandalous scene before him.

Dhritarashtra’s future brother-in-law’s voice is brusque in a way that seems to run in the royal family of Gandhara; indeed, in their brief meeting, he has heard echoes of it in in his bride. But there is something deeper in Sakuni’s voice, something Dhritarashtra cannot analyze further as Gandhari speaks.

“The Prince of Hastinapur, my betrothed, had summoned me, and I could not disobey him, brother.”

“And your veil, Mahika? What of your precious vow, that only an hour ago you were nursing so tenderly like a firstborn heir?”

 _Mahika:_ friend, frost, earth. A name of contradictions, a vibrant name that his bride will forever leave behind now that she represents no more than her defeated vassal country. Gandhari has lost so much in becoming his bride; has Dhritarashtra deprived her of one more thing she had hoped to keep, ill-considered vow though it was?

But her voice is steady as she says, “I am to become a queen, brother, and how may I be a worthy one to my king if I am blind?”

Sakuni seems not to know how to respond, as he replies, “Envoys have come from home. They have matters to speak of. Personal matters. Family matters. _Private_ matters.”

The implied rebuke is clear enough, and Dhritarashtra does not wish to make unjustified demands on his soon-to-be-wife’s time. Their peculiar first meeting is over.

Gandhari steps back and kneels to take her blessing at his feet. A preemptive gesture, considering they are not bound to one another yet, but one he appreciates. He passes a mindless hand over her head and turns away, intending to bid her farewell, when she grabs his hand and rises with it. In a deliberate motion, she brings both of them up to her lips.

He is still, as the gasps of the servants echo once more, and Dhritarashtra does not need sight to feel his brother-in-law’s murderous glare boring into him. He does not react, as Gandhari slowly lowers their joined hands. She waits, and he can imagine hesitation, regret even taking hold of her, blooming on her face.

He brings her palms to his face, presses his kiss to her interlaced fingers. A final squeeze, and then she bows once more, before she takes her leave of him for good.


End file.
